


Hovering at the End

by winchestersinthedrift



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bunker Sex, First Time, Injury, M/M, late season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 17:15:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5548730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchestersinthedrift/pseuds/winchestersinthedrift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'He keeps expecting it to taste weird, and then he thinks it’s weird that it doesn’t; it just tastes like Sam, and Dean isn’t sure how he knows what Sam tastes like without having ever tasted him, but he accepts it because it’s not the strangest thing that’s happened today.'</p>
<p>Sam gets hurt. Dean finds out some things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hovering at the End

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pathossam (waywardelle)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardelle/gifts).



> for Linds, who gave me the prompt and also encouraged me so much when I first started trying to write the boys. x

It’s an hour since Dean got Sam back to the bunker, creeping through the fog or darkness or whatever this shit is called with the driver’s door open a bit so he could look for the centre line. Slow, slow, slow, and all the time Sam beside him with his eyes rolling up into his head, breathing quick and shallow and turning grey, and fuck if this was how he was gonna let Sammy go out, from three deep gashes scored into his ribs, just cause of fucking _fog_.

It’s been forty minutes since he stopped the bleeding and stitched up the three long wounds in Sam’s chest, and Dean is still shaking. He’s shaking more than Sam is. Sam’s just lying there, grey-faced still but calm, and Dean is going to shake right apart.

‘Hey,’ Sam says, when Dean starts to check the bandage again, ‘it’s fine, it’s the same, just oozing a little. Wanna watch tv?’ Dean sits down on the side of the bed and curls a little forward, hands gripping the edge of the mattress. Sam looks at him and set his lips together a little, worriedly. ‘Dude, what’s the matter?’

Dean looks at him sideways and quick and a deep shudder wrenches up nauseating from his gut. He’s done this more times than he’s kept track of, bandaged Sam up, but these days everything that used to be so routine between them seems acute and unsettling, like it’s probing under a different layer of skin. He sits there on the edge of the bed and watches Sam breath, watches his chest still hitching a little.

‘’Nother quarter inch and that woulda hit your heart, Sam. You’d be - I couldn’t fix that.’ He puts a hand over the bandage, light, and drags his palm a little sideways over Sam’s chest. ‘I couldn’t fix that,’ he says again, and Sam looks at him steadily.

‘No,’ says Sam, and it’s agreement, not denial. He puts his left hand around Dean’s forearm and tightens so hard and quick it almost feels like a reflex, but when Dean glances up Sam’s looking right at him.

'Dean,’ he says, 'don’t freak out.’

'I never freak out,’ says Dean automatically.

‘I mean about this,’ says Sam, and takes a breath, 'I like it when you touch me,’ and he says it so simply and matter-of-fact that Dean doesn’t quite process it all at once.

‘OK, Sammy, OK,’ he says, ‘you wanna back rub too you big baby?’ It’s half joking, half distracted, his brain still caught in post-adrenaline lag, but Sam just holds his gaze and after a minute Dean slightly, slightly double-takes and licks his lips in a nervous tic.

‘You - huh?’ he says, with deep but ambiguous feeling, and Sam pushes himself up on his good shoulder.

‘I like it when you touch me,’ he says again, ‘I’ve liked it for a long time.’

They’re staring at each other again. Dean’s lips are numb and he feels a tiny bit dizzy, because it’s one of those moments when you realise that gravity isn’t quite what you thought it was, or rather that gravity has stayed the same all along but you’ve not been quite tipped rightwise to the world.

He licks his lips and sets the knuckles of his free hand hard under his jaw.

‘Do you mean -’ he says, ‘are you saying - Sam -’

Sam tugs gentle on Dean’s forearm and when he automatically leans in Sam pushes up a little further on his good arm and kisses Dean, angles his jaw so that their lips fit close together, and for exactly three seconds Dean is frozen, so frozen his hand stays curled in a fist under his jaw. Then it uncurls and gropes, sure and searching, finds Sam’s bicep and runs gentle down it, and Dean’s kissing back, kissing Sam’s impossibly soft lips and the little places where Sam’s dimples hide.

He breaks off to say ‘How long?’ and Sam doesn’t answer, just follows Dean’s mouth and tries to pull him over onto the bed with his good arm. Dean resists for a second, two seconds.

‘How long?’ he says again, and Sam goes still and licks his lips. The bruises on his face are starting to swell yellow and purple and one of his eyes is puffed up. Dean thinks he is the kind of beautiful that melts the sinews away from bones. ‘How long, Sam,’ he presses, and it’s not so much that he needs a number, no, but they’ve been not-acknowledging this for a long, long time, and if they’re going to go there then he needs it to be _all the way there_ , carved out entire into the brutal open. If they pull this card the whole house will fall down, and ok, but let it be just that. _All_ the cards.

Sam holds him tight in eyes and voice and it’s almost an answer, the way his eyes drag over Dean’s face and a smile sits glimmering in the corner of his mouth, but what he says is

‘let’s fuck.’

There’s a loose limber warmth in Dean’s bones now and he shrugs up a little closer against Sam but what he says is ‘Sam for chrissake you’re not in any shape to -’ and breaks off. Sam flicks his eyes up and Dean wriggles a little cause his cock is starting to stiffen.

‘Ok,’ Sam says, equanimously, answering the unspoken part of the protest. ‘You top this time.’

Dean is so equally startled and aroused that he grips Sam’s hand harder to keep from slipping straight off the bed and into the strange through-the-looking-glass world that’s swimming on the edge of his senses.

‘I -’ he says, strangled a little, and swallows to wet his throat. ‘I, Sam, haven’t, I haven’t, I - goddammit Sam.’ He doesn’t know quite why he’s swearing, except that Sam is looking at him in this way that Sam has only ever looked at him in his dreams. And not his daydreams but his goddamn REM real dream-dreams.

Instead of answering Sam just reaches with one of his big hands and palms it up and down the line of Dean’s cock, twice, through his jeans. He does that thing where his tongue flutters wet and soft just inside his lips and Dean doubles over a tiny bit from how fast he hardens completely. He gets a leg on the other side of Sam’s hips, eases him back onto the pillow and kisses him again, open-mouthed this time, licking softly along the back of Sam’s top teeth and sucking his lower lip into his mouth. He keeps expecting it to taste weird, and then he thinks it’s weird that it doesn’t; it just tastes like Sam, and Dean isn’t sure how he knows what Sam tastes like without having ever tasted him, but he accepts it because it’s not the strangest thing that’s happened today.

As he’s kissing Dean shifts a little higher around Sam’s thighs, still kneeling over him, so that his knees are snugged up tight just below Sam’s hips, and he pops open the buttons of Sam’s jeans (god, he’d made fun of those jeans) and before he can think too much about it he’s got his hand over Sam’s cock.

There’s a surge of relief, cause now that he’s touched it it’s like he’s crossed the Rubicon, he’s fucking Cortez burning his ships, no going back now. He grips a little firmer and twists his hand gentle from little finger to index, rolling pressure along Sam’s cock, and it twitches and fills a little in his hand and _fuck_.

‘Sam,’ he says, unsteadily, and when he looks up Sam’s got his jaw up in the air and he’s straining as much as a man with three bad gashes through his chest can strain.

‘Do it,’ he says, and he doesn’t say what, exactly, but Dean’s got a decent idea. He lets his eyes rake over Sam, the slick blood-streaked sweat across his shoulders and the perked-up nipples in the middle of his broad chest. Then he sets his mouth and grabs the back pockets of Sam’s jeans and _pulls_ and there, a decade of longing flushes into the back of his throat and he can’t quite see, he’s dizzy and lightheaded, but he blinks and shakes his head and there’s his little brother’s balls drawn up tight and straining and his cock hard and ruddy, bobbing up now away from his stomach with a thick thread of precum roping back to the line of hair that runs down to his pubic bone and Dean lets his breath out slow, slow and steady.

He can’t look away for a few minutes but when he does, when he glances up, Sam’s chest is not so much heaving as shuddering lightly, Dean can see the hitch when the movement hurts Sam’s wounds, and Sam’s licking his lips almost constantly, pink wet tongue in and out and in and in and out.

‘Dean,’ Sam says, and there’s an echo of the soft college-boy Sam that Dean first trembled into love with, but mostly it’s the Sam who’s got some grey hairs, the Sam that’s been through a thousand hurts and bruises beside him and some of them they’ve given to each other, the Sam who drinks less coffee in the morning these days and more whiskey in the evening and who’s a thousand pieces of scar tissue, body and soul both, and Dean loves him.

‘Be still,’ Dean says, unnecessarily, and tugs Sam’s jeans down past his knees and off over his feet. He shifts his body down the bed so his elbows are around Sam’s hips.

‘I ain’t blowing you just right now,’ Dean says, and it’s not that he doesn’t want to, but he has a hazy idea that if that starts nothing else is gonna happen for a good long while and he wants to go the full nine yards before his nerves can override this first clear impetus. ‘Spread your legs, Sammy.’ A prickle crawls over his skin, fast, when he says it and Sam kind of rolls a little from his hips to his shoulders, but he lets his thighs fall apart and Dean sits up on his heels and thinks for a second, grabs a pillow and stuffs it under Sam’s ass. He can see Sam’s hole now and reach it OK and part of his brain is freaking the fuck out but he’s done this with girls, lots of times, and he tries to shut down his fucking brain and let sense memory take over.

They’re both breathing hard now and Sam’s trying to hold still, both from the pain and to let Dean work, but Dean can feel him trembling right through the mattress. He presses both his hands hard into the creases of Sam’s thighs, the thick weight of his brother’s cock slipping past under his palm.

‘Dean,’ says Sam, hoarsely, and Dean slicks up his fingers and brushes the pad of his thumb over the rim of Sam’s hole.

‘Shut up,’ he says, and pushes two fingers in together, using his thumb to open Sam up a bit and it’s a lot to take from the start but Dean’s hungry now, he can feel the blood thrumming hot into his cock and the familiar shiver of arousal over the nape of his neck, only not so familiar cause this time it’s for Sam, it’s _explicitly_ for Sam and there’s a weird bout of fisticuffs going on between his cock and his brain, which hasn’t quite shifted over to the notion that this is ok now, he’s allowed to do this, Sam _wants_ him to do this. Then all of a sudden without him realising it his mouth is making sounds and - fuck - he’s talking to Sam and he’s not quite sure what he’s been saying.

‘ - jesus christ sam do you - is this - oh my god - sam do you -‘ Dean hears himself saying, vague and uncertain, but his cock is bobbing heavy and red and he’s so worked up that the end of every breath is dipping into a sort of ragged grunt. He keeps pumping and pressing inside Sam with his fingers and Sam’s hips are bumping up towards him and here’s the thing, he doesn’t know _this_ , no, but he knows Sam, knows how Sam sounds when he’s bleeding and when he’s just accidentally inhaled gunpowder and when he’s sad and hungry and pleased and how he looks when he’s ready to kill and he knows how Sam looks aroused, too, he’s walked in on a few hook-ups and a whole lot more wank-offs and christ, they’ve fucking watched porn together in a hundred motel rooms, jerking off discreetly on separate beds, but anyway Dean knows what Sam looks like and this is it, the panting and the open mouth and the way his hips just hitch up fucking constantly.

‘OK Sam, hold tight,’ Dean says, and he pushes in, head and shaft both, sinks right down to the soft curls at his pubic bone.

‘OK?’ he says then, hoarse, ‘OK?’ and Sam says through his teeth

‘fuck, uggh, for chrissake Dean stop asking.’

Dean puts his hands tight around Sam’s hips and pulls back, cock dragging along inside, and it feels like impossible softness and thought-choking pressure. Sam goes all stiff and silent, draws long arching lines with all his bones and grabs the sheet with both hands. Dean starts to thrust in earnest, careful but steady. After a minute, maybe two, he gets a hand up and fists Sam’s cock and Sam comes almost at once, rolling a little from side to side and making little choked-off cries. Dean can see Sam’s bandages blushing pink from the movement and starts to pull out, but Sam clamps a hand over his wrist and _growls_ at him, eyes fever-bright, and Dean gets up on his knees and _fucks_ , harder and steady this time. When he’s close he puts his face down right over Sam’s ripped-up chest and breathes him in, musk and blood and sweat and disinfectant, and Dean comes like some vital thing is being dragged from him, not hard or sharp but warm and ragged and obliterating.

He pulls out carefully after and looks first at Sam’s bandages, which seem mostly alright but he’ll change them in a minute. Then he rolls up sideways against Sam, hooks a leg up over Sam’s thighs and gets up on one forearm. Sam’s eyes are closed but he’s smiling a little and Dean kisses him again, still pleasantly unused to the novelty of Sam;s scruff against his lips and the way that Sam kisses back, sure and strong and open-mouthed.

‘According to the lore,’ says Sam, after maybe a minute or maybe twenty, and he’s grinning, ‘the Norse Vanir often took their siblings as lovers. It was a mark of their divine liminality.’

Dean thinks about that for a minute.

‘Sayin’ I’m a god, Sammy?’ he says, and Sam gets up slowly on one elbow and gives Dean a look that Dean feels flush to the end of every nerve.

‘You tell me,’ Sam says, and grins.

Dean shows him instead.


End file.
